


And It Burns, Burns, Burns

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (the 99th do), Also Taserface's real name is Brad, Anal Sex, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Dubious Morality, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Just the usual Dark Shit you can expect from getting into Taserface's head, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Rape Fantasy, Sadism, Violence, Violent Thoughts, all actual sexual content is consensual, hints of underage sex (by American standards), i don't make the rules, mention of pedophilia, no actual rape, snuff fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-01 14:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: The ring of fire, the ring of fire, it burns.





	And It Burns, Burns, Burns

**Author's Note:**

> **I promised, and I shall deliver! ....Late. As usual. Ahem. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, but please read the tags before you continue.**

First time he tries it, they're young. That don't click for Braddock until long after.

 

Age is unreal to him. Unreal like how the grimier parts of the galaxy – the drug cartels and the kiddie prostitution rings and the mandingo pits where slaves hyped on aggro-meds tear each other to gory shreds, teeth chomping sinew, sand crumby with dry and drying blood – are unreal to them who ain't paying customers.

 

Braddock's here, Braddock's alive and Braddock's fucking massive. That's all that matters. His is the sorta build that makes folks gulp, makes 'em touch where the weapons are stashed under their greasy spacer cloaks, makes 'em get out your way and stay there.

 

Doesn’t work on Udonta. Unfortunately.

 

“The fuck you sayin'?”

 

Welcome to Jifka, current pit-stop of the Ravager hoard. It's even worse than the brochures make out, a cheesy clogged-up piss-hole of a world.

 

Main industry's matter recycling – breaking sewage into raw atoms to be rearranged into everything from jet fuel to the sauce on those disgusting worms Udonta got half the crew hooked on. Planet actually stinks worse than the bog block after Horuz has passed through.

 

Cap'n drapes over the crusty leather stool, facing outwards, elbows hooked back on the bar. His beastie packet sits on his lap, rolled to stop ‘em staling.

 

“I'm sayin',” he says, sucking orange dust from the splits in his nails, “that if yer pissed about lost revenue, I can make it up to ya.”

 

Udonta uses words like 'revenue', but never in front of the whole crew.

 

Udonta can do math in his head, though he pretends he struggles (unless short-changed).

 

He uses his brains and his arrow to keep his stranglehold on a power he doesn’t deserve. Tricks, tricks, all of it tricks. This is just one more.

 

Braddock ain’t clever, not by any means. But he’s smart enough to know Udonta’s smarter, and to never trust that playful grin.

 

"Pass," he says. He drains his vinegary excuse for beer. As expected, when he’s done with the usual rituals (tankard: slammed on counter; beard; de-foamed; belch: sent to join the methane clouds) only thing besides him's an empty stool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kraglin pins the Orloni on his lap. Its skin peels apart just the way he likes. It’s still alive, poor thing, and it fits as he prods its glistening innards with his gloved finger, smile curling pretty on his face.

 

Cushy scene. Braddock can't wait to ruin it.

 

"Oi, idiot."

 

Kraglin jumps. He forgets to hold his critter. It slithers off his bony legs, thumping the floor. It squirms for a second, guts spilling from their cavity. Then it's off, racing for the sanctuary of the port, wet pink ribbon unravelling behind.

 

Braddock waits, foot raised. Then, looking Kraglin dead in the eye, he stomps.

 

Crunch. Crackle, more accurately, as air pops from a hundred tiny bones.

 

Kraglin’s grin falls. “Aw, Brad. What’chu go do that for?”

 

Braddock rubs the gunge from his boot treads. “Put it outta its misery," he says, though it's more about spoiling Kraglin’s fun. "What you doin' here, boy?”

 

Kraglin's sixteen or thereabouts, although he claims older. They found the skinny, sickly thing scrabbling through their pantry stock on the Hraxian homeworld. He's a runt compared to the giants who populate his planet. But for all of his deficits – big blue eyes and a negligible chin – his sadistic streak's a klik wider than  _Half-Nut’s_.

 

Shame Braddock ain't got a hope of recruiting him. Most days, Kraglin can can be found torturing Orloni pups in the pipes or slathering over Yondu like he'd like to give him the same tender treatment.

 

Kraglin licks the blood off his knife. His tongue is barbed, like a cat's.

 

“Waitin' for cap'n,” he says, because of course he is. “Told me to guard ship.”

 

Braddock eyes up the ship in question. It's auto-locked. Only way anyone's getting in is with the aid of a blowtorch. Most likely, cap'n just wanted to ditch his tagalong.

 

“Terran?” If he can torment the squirt in Yondu's absence, it'll put a shine on his day. Kraglin thumbs over his shoulder.

 

“On ship.”

 

Dammit. Ain't neither of them authorized to unlock the doors, and Braddock ain't got a blowtorch on him. Looks like Terran's off the menu.

 

From Scrote to Wretch – hell, even Obfonteri – whole crew has something to say about the latest addition to their crew. Powerhouse of a Ravager galleon is its men, and ain't none of them happy about waving toodle-oo to a sweet three-mill just so’s they can content themselves that one brat in this stars-forsaken galaxy might take a while longer to die.

 

Braddock scans the dirty cockpit glass. He finds the pasty circle of a face, smushed up close as the kid tries to eavesdrop. He can’t wring the brat’s neck, but he can make him lurch back, trip over the seat and go sprawling when he drags his finger cross the burns on his throat.

 

He stops chuckling when he realises Kraglin's watching. “Them's gnarly scars, Brad."

 

"Sure are."

 

"Do they still hurt?”

 

“You wave that knife near me, boy, I shove it down yer throat with my fist attached.”

 

Braddock surveys the dock. He counts the milling vagabonds, outcasts, hobos, call 'em what you will. Spacers. Theirs is a tribe of nomads, uprooted and unmoored, no planet to call home. The banished 99th fits right in.

 

Kraglin ain't so engrossed with their surroundings. After giving it a wiping far more meticulous than his morning shaves, he slides the blade back into one of the many holsters stitched into his jumpsuit and sucks his goofy teeth.

 

“How'd ya get 'em, Brad? Them burns? What happened?”

 

Braddock ain't obliged to answer him. Braddock ain't obliged to answer shit. But perhaps Obfonteri needs a lesson in what his precious boss is capable of.

 

“Cap'n happened,” is all he says.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Obonteri tries to rejig conversation every now and then, but Braddock ain't feeling it. He ain’t happy about having to stand around. The piss in the air is pickling his burnt face and he wants off this planet as much as the next sod with an olfactory sense.

 

Figuring he can’t make the atmosphere any thicker, he takes to curtailing each of Obfonteri’s questions with flatulence. Takes a sweet quarter hour for the message to percolate – by which time Braddock's almost outta ammo and risks adding to the tan on his brown leather pants.

 

But Obfonteri cottons on eventually. They wait in blessed silence after that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Tullk's next to approach. He's a solid man in every sense of the word – sturdy and stout and far smarter than he lets on. Sorta guy who'd stride past the event horizon of a singularity and haul his captain out by the pointy blue ear.

 

“Business concluded,” he says. He peels off one frayed fingerless glove and presents his hand to the biolock. “Get ‘er ready for take-off.”

 

Seven ventured on this planet-side sojourn, ostensibly to haggle over the contents of the  _Eclector’s_  waste tanks. Only five return. Udonta is one of them. He saunters right up to Braddock, stopping close enough that his chest brushes Braddock's belly.

 

“Shame ya didn't take me up on that proposal,” he says, picking something out from between his teeth.

 

"Oh yeah?"

 

Scratch, scratch. Dirty nails chip metal.

 

“Had fun with the other boys.”

 

Braddock sneers. Thinks of him belly-down and fucked bloody, both ends, eyes wet and deadly lips ruined. Knows it wasn't like that, knows it ain't never like that, but thinks about it anyway. "Bet ya did, boss.”

 

"Uh-huh." Udonta removes his finger. On it glistens a meat fiber, pulpy and red. “Y'all missed quite the feast.”

 

Then he strikes. No time to dodge. Udonta grabs a handful of dreadlocks and yanks Braddock's face to his level.

 

Meat-breath licks his beard. “Don't lemme hear you threaten my Terran again. Kid's  _my_ cargo.”

 

Bullshit. Braddock can’t call him out on it though, not with the arrow right there, buzzing at Udonta’s belt like a pissed-off wasp.

 

“Yessir.”

 

“Good.” Udonta pats the blisters on Braddock's cheek like he weren't the one to put 'em there. “Glad we had this talk.”

 

He motions like he expects Braddock to move from his path. Braddock stays right where he is. Like hell is this over that easy, not after what he's spent the past few weeks muttering to choice members of the crew.

 

“Why ain’t I dead?”

 

Udonta’s eyes narrow, but he dons his Encouraging Smile, the one he uses when explaining complex heists, the one Braddock’s wanted to grind off with his boot since the day Ogord mustered their crew and told ‘em to call this uppity piece of slave-stock  _cap’n_. “You and yer two pals – Mauler and that other one, Cran…”

 

“Crannik,” Braddock says.

 

“Crannik. You were the ones what started this whole crap ‘bout takin’ the kid back to his daddy if I were too soft to do it myself. Right?”

 

No point denying it. Braddock nods.

 

Udonta nods too. “So y’see, I need one of y’all suckers alive to tell the rest of the crew why that’s such a piss poor idea.”

 

Tullk clears his throat. “Cap'n.” He nods to the cockpit. Oh – that's what the racket was. Braddock thought an engine had backfired. But nope; it's the Terran, jabbering rapid-fire in its native tongue as Kraglin scuttles from one side of the cockpit to the other, headphones waggling high above where the brat can jump. “Want me to get that?”

 

“If ya would.” Yondu treats Tullk to a slinky smile as he passes, eyes skirting down his inseam. The smile flattens when he turns back to Braddock. “See that? Tullk there – Krags too – they're  _loyal._ Loyal dogs get treats.”

 

If Braddock’s a mutt, he sure ain’t domesticated. “Quill gonna join yer lil' harem too?”

 

Udonta’s laugh flashes too many teeth. “If yer thinkin' thoughts like that, ya deserve worse'n I did to Crannik.”

 

“An’ what did ya do to Crannik, boss?”

 

Udonta makes a show outta licking his chops. “Confiscated his toys.”

 

For all Braddock insists to himself that nothing Udonta can do impresses him, that doesn’t stop his dick shrinking up his thigh. “Good my bits ain't comin' near yer teeth then, boss.”

 

“Yeah.” Pink eyes, low-lidded, long lashed. They blink slow as treacle, a full-bellied predator turning down a kill. "We'll see about that."

 

In the shuttle, Tullk has repatriated the Terran's primitive music device. He's busy scolding a sniggering Kraglin in the corner while the brat screeches abuse from the co-pilot's seat, face red as Braddock's and streaky with snot. Happy fucking families.

 

When Braddock doesn't move, Udonta shoulders past him. He swaggers through the door, his leather-odor eclipsing, for the briefest second, the stink from the overheating ammonia vats.

 

Braddock stays where he is. He savors the hate that pounds behind his groin, hot like cap’n groped him.

 

“You comin’ or ain’t ya?” calls Udonta from the ladder well. He's turned away, showing him his back. Like he trusts Braddock ain't gonna shoot it. Like he knows he can whistle before he draws.

 

Braddock scoffs, shakes his head. Then he falls in line.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Second time, Braddock ain't said shit about the boy.

 

Kid’s twelve now and earning enough for Braddock to let him walk by without a kick. It don't make up for what they lost when they skipped out on delivery, but the past is the past. Braddock can chew old grudges like cud, but killing the pipsqueak won’t help.

 

So he tells himself. He don't like the brat and the brat don't like him, and he's made it very clear that he'll be waiting in the galley, sharpening his skewers, the day the boy fucks up serious enough to take a swan dive from Udonta’s graces.

 

But if this ain't a ploy to buy loyalty, that still leaves one gaping fuck-hole of a question.

 

“Why?” Braddock asks.

 

He's at work, putting his back into it. Barely heard his captain approach over the thunk of his cleaver into the board, the simmer and spit from the vat. That’s deep enough to drown two men stood atop each other's shoulders, parked on a red-glowing engine vent.

 

“Issa natural reproductive impulse,” says the captain, proving he ain’t so smart after all. Braddock’s seen him in the showers and even he knows that two dicks doth not a baby make – not in this quadrant, anyway. “Don’t need no more reason.”

 

Braddock shakes his head. “Why me.”

 

"What’chu mean?”

 

Now he's just playing stupid. "Why you wanna screw about with me when there's them what line up willin'." Not that he's jealous. He gets what he needs when he needs it, and once the bitch is in his cabin they ain't leaving till he's done with 'em.

 

"Guess I just fancied a change."

 

Galley’s empty; Udonta dismissed Braddock’s underlings soon as he walked in. He perches on the opposite side of the counter, hand zipping in and out of the cutting pile, nabbing slivers of raw meat.

 

That’s gamey, a day on the sweet side of rancid. A fuck-up on the last job – sneaking through Skrull territory’s always a gamble, but trying to rob the frilly green fuckers is tantamount to suicide – meant they had to flee into No Man’s Space, away from civilised ports, thrusters screaming, jump drive coughing smoke, down fifty hands from the new asshole plowed in the  _Eclector’s_ backside.

 

They lost another three patching the breach, including one of Braddock’s more useful galley assistants. That’s a big death toll, even by Ravager standards. And Udonta thinks he can waltz in here, spread his legs, make it all shiny again?

 

Braddock works his knife faster, a blur of grimy steel. If he's lucky, he might relieve the bastard of a finger.

 

But no matter how quick he is, captain’s quicker. Braddock's in danger of losing digits of his own. He slows the pace with an internal sigh, sticks the blade through his apron straps and, dodging Udonta’s last swipe, mounts the ladder to the cauldron, chopping board balanced on one shoulder.

 

“Obfonteri ain't touchin' that spot no more?” he calls over his shoulder. It ain’t surprising; lil' sadist's pecker is skinny as the rest of him.

 

Udonta licks bloody lips, sucks the shine from his fingertips. “Fraid not. You gonna sear this off first? I like me a crispy finish.”

 

Braddock deposits the meat. He shouts over the bubble and hiss: “Tullk neither?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Bots?”

 

“Two weeks from any port.” No thanks to him. “Anyway, m’thinking you got a bone to pick.” Udonta’s grin crawls over face like flies on a dead thing. He sprawls on the counter, legs spread. His leathers squish through the meat juice and he smirks at Braddock topsy-turvy. “Wanna come down here and pick it?”

 

Fuck.

 

He does, that's the worst thing. Wants to rub him about in the filth. Smack his implant against the table hard enough to rattle his brains, then again, and again and again and  _again,_  until his deadly mouth stops yapping and his eyes drift out of focus and his tongue drools stiff and cold under Braddock’s cock.

 

Gets him half-chubbed just thinking about it. He has to concentrate, taking the ladder one step at the time. If he falls, he'll only make a fool of himself – a bigger fool than the bulge at his crotch proclaims him.

 

"So much for that rep of yours,  _cap’n_." He says it like an insult. Means it too.

 

"Rep's for them what respect you. You never have. What's the point in tryin'?" Udona’s coat squelches ever so slightly when he breathes. "You ain't gonna listen, not when ya think you can do my job better."

 

Braddock’s no genius, but he sure ain’t dumb enough to take bait like that.

 

“Yer in the way,” he grunts. “Sir.”

 

Udonta pushes to sit. He faces away from Braddock. Meat juice trickles down his coat, slimy red rivulets. Smells like his breath, matches his eyes.

 

“C'mon now. I seen you lookin’. You been wantin' me to lick yer boots since you signed on.”

 

Braddock thinks about it. He really, truly does. Not about boot-licking or whatever other tame shit Udonta's got in mind. He thinks about flipping Udonta face-first, cutting off his pants then carrying on, carving into the rump beneath. Thinks about fingerfucking him until he quivers, then shoving a pistol in instead of his prick, pulling the trigger,  _splat,_ plasma busting him from the inside.

 

All the ways he can hurt him, break him, crack him open and feast on the wet squish beneath.

 

Then he thinks of the dinner rush and how much prep he has left to finish, thanks to Udonta scaring off his surviving galley staff.

 

He walks to the other side of the table and picks Udonta up by the hips.

 

The captain  _purrs_. He bucks, flattening his groin to Braddock's for a sticky, lascivious grind.

 

Braddock drops him on the floor.

 

Udonta scrambles up again sharpish, flipping his slimy coat off his back.

 

“The hell was that?”

 

He's flustered for the first time in Braddock's living memory. Ain’t a bad look.

 

Braddock's grin ain't all that distinct from his snarl, being as both are equally devoid of lip tissue. “I gotta job to do.”

 

The insinuation –  _so do you, and you ain't doing it –_ doesn't fly over Udonta’s head. His brows lower, his lips purse, and for a moment Braddock thinks  _this is it, you pushed too far._ But cap’n only utters a few irate clicks in his native vernacular before flipping one of the Terran's crude hand gestures at Braddock and stalking away.

 

He doesn't come to mess that night. Neither do Tullk and Kraglin. Braddock imagines them rolling together, fucking their cap’n clench-toothed and cussin’.

 

Ain't enough. Ain't never gonna  _be_ enough. Because Braddock knows Udonta, and men like him. Greedy men. He is one himself, in fact. Once a greedy man sets eyes on what he wants, he ain't gonna rest till he owns it.

 

Braddock polishes his knives in a rare meditative silence. Once his lackeys finish with the clean-up, he barks for ‘em to fuck off, leave him be. Only when the door flaps shut does he stroll to the chopping station where Udonta made his dirty little gamble and tried to goad Braddock to play.

 

It was a ploy, course it was. Give him a taste of what he wants, get him hooked. Basic addict's principle. Only right now the drug's Udonta’s body and he's his own pimp, complete with that sleazy, gold-capped grin.

 

Braddock rubs both hands over where Udonta sat. Sniffs. Nothing but meat. None of them Yondu-smells, the sweat trapped in leather, the rotten spit, the sex.

 

He unzips. Jerks himself. He's vicious with it, yanking his cock like he's trying to start a blaze, bright as the one Udonta nailed him with on their first meeting.

 

Braddock don’t remember much of it, cept the stink of blistering flesh, burning beard, the hoarse raw grate of his screams _._ Definitely don’t remember what was shouted to him as he rolled about the empty jetty, fire clawing rabid at the sky.

 

But he remembers Udonta. Remembers him standing there, wobbling like a hallucination, a mirage, a dream, making no move to help.

 

“My bad,” he imagines him saying. “Forgot to mention that blast jelly’s active. Guess ya should’ve checked before ya tried to cram it in my engines, huh?”

 

Imaginary or otherwise, his snigger sparks a thrill in Braddock, a bolt of hatred that shoots between crotch and chest.

 

_Bastard tricked me. Bastard thinks he’s so clever. Bastard thinks he’s won._

 

“Don’t worry,” says the Yondu of his nightmares, as flames leap from Braddock’s beard and reflect off bared metal teeth. “You weren’t much of a looker anyways.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Braddock studies the mess. Like one of them dumb  _psych-ee-logical profile_ tests they make you sit through on your fifteenth violent arrest.

 

_Mr Braddock, Mr Braddock. Look into the blots. What do you see?_

 

Mr Braddock sees things the way they ought to be.

 

His captain crawling away from him, dazed, bruised, skull dented like an M-ship after a ding. Mumbling for help, slurring, leaving a slick mucus-trail of blood and worse.

 

Mr Braddock sees himself lifting him, that blue face slack as a sleeping infant’s. Sees him dragging him to the vent beneath the vat and holding him there with the patience of a chef, first one side then the other, waiting on that crispy fucking finish.

 

Mr Braddock smiles. He grabs a filthy rag from the sink and drags it across the chopping board, smearing the sticky white strings.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Three times. That's how long it takes for Braddock to cave. He's been thinking about it, worrying away at it like a rotten tooth.

 

Oh, he knows he ain't never getting what he wants. Ain't never gonna hold him down, not unless he wants to be held. He understands that now. Ain't never gonna get more than a crude mock-up of the real ugly, bloody, scream-soaked thing.

 

Fact of it is, you can't catch stars in your hands and you’d only burn up if you tried. Sometimes you gotta settle for glitter and dust.

 

It's another year down that spiral they call life. The galley brats have started calling him _Taserface_ behind his back. Rumors about the origins of his tortured mug abound. He stood behind an M-ship jet at take-off – no, he flirted with an A’askavarian during the acid-spitting phase of their rut – no, he pissed off cap’n, got what he had coming.

 

That last one strikes too close to the truth for Braddock’s liking. He threatens to dice the perpetrators into that night’s goulash.

 

But if you can’t kill a rumor, a nickname’s more tenacious yet. It tracks him from port to port, spreading, disseminating, growing like something contagious, like the mildew that blackens the grouting in the showers.

 

If there ain’t no point fighting it, he might as well embrace it. Like Udonta, when he decided convincing Braddock to respect him would take too much effort, so he might as well sink his hooks in another way. Anyway, it don’t sound so awful, not when you repeat it to yourself a few times in the mirror.

 

Taserface. Tay-zer-face. That’s a name what strikes fear into the hearts of all of them what hear it.

 

Udonta doesn’t agree. “Mornin' Taserface,” he says, then guffaws and slaps his thigh.

 

He was with Kraglin last night. Tullk don't leave him limping. Tullk treats him gentle, Tullk fucks him right – it's Kraglin who'll torture him for hours, hurt him with such fondness but stop at a word.

 

Maybe that's why Udonta keeps approaching Taserface. ‘Cause no matter how many scars Kraglin leaves, the scrawny pissant will never not give a shit.

 

Not like Taserface. He hates him, he wants to hurt him, and the only thing that’s stopping him is Udonta’s arrow. Ergo, taking his cock’s gotta be the biggest damn power rush Udonta has yet to feel.

 

“Cap’n,” he says through his teeth. Then he stands from where he’s scaling the hard-vac jellies off the underside of his M-ship and heads for the boarding ramp.

 

Udonta, predictably, potters after him. “Where you goin'? You ain't heard me out!”

 

“I know what'chu want.”

 

The irritation folds from his captain's face. “Hm. Do ya now.”

 

Taserface nods. Yondu stalks closer, predatory. He circles around him, a clawtip trailing from Taserface's front to his back, cutting a groove through the oil on his leathers.

 

He stops behind him. Taserface lets him, no outward show of discomfort, listening to the high, eager rasp of his breath.

 

 _Bastard thinks he’s clever_. _Bastard thinks he’s won._

 

“Gonna give it to me too?”

 

He nods some more.

 

They're in the hangar. As chief of the galley, it ain’t often Taserface takes solos. He makes a steady enough income just from peeling potatoes. But he's never one to turn down a fight, much less a raiding party. They're closing on a cruiser fresh out of Xandarspace, stupid enough to venture into uncharted systems without an armed escort. If Taserface wants his share of the plunder, he's gotta get his old bird shipshape.

 

But that can wait. He stands aside, letting Udonta precede him through the door.

 

Man's almost jigging. Doesn't he realize what he's doing? He could be walking into a trap. But the arrow's in its harness, dull and still like it couldn't stitch a pretty thread of death through every man aboard if only Udonta willed it.

 

Taserface pushes the plunger on the lock. It don't matter whether anyone's seen ‘em enter. They know Udonta’ll be walking out intact – only question is whether Taserface joins him.

 

“There,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the only occupant of his central hold: a round table, liver-spotted with blood; a knife rack instead of a cornucopia. “You wanna do this, it's my way."

 

"What's that mean, Tasie?"

 

 _Tasie._ His jaw winds tight as an M-ship emergency launch spring. "Clothes off. Bend over, hands out.”

 

Yondu rubs his thighs together. Squeak, squeak, goes the leather.

 

Fuck, he's needy. Like a pre-programmed bot, wet at a word. He wants this, he ain't ashamed to admit it, and Taserface fucking hates it, how easily he caves.

 

“Thas how it's gonna be?”

 

“Thas how it's gonna be."

 

Yondu watches him like he’s hooking his filthy nails under Taserface's burns, peeling them off scab by scab. Then, as Taserface knew he would, he pulls his arms from his coat and lets it crumple, a man-sized shell, one wall down.

 

“No lastin' damage,” he pants, hopping with one boot shed and his pant legs trailing. His bare ass glows luminous, and – well shit. Kraglin's left his mark. Spelled out in shaky Xandarian, cut into the smooth flesh recent-like, judging by the grainy quality of the scar.

 

No wonder Yondu's been showering in private quarters.

 

“Else I whistle. No coverin' my mouth, else I bite'chu then I whistle. No” –

 

“You gonna yap at me all night?”

 

“No collarin' me,” Yondu finishes, meeting his gaze. “No vids, no thirds unless I okay it. Same with shit in public. An' don'tchu ever threaten the Terran, yeah? Not where I can hear.”

 

“Or you whistle.”

 

Udonta’s eyes shimmer bright as an emergency flare. “Or I whistle.”

 

Satisfied his sermon has been received, he swaggers to the table. He flops on it with legs dangling, long toenails just scratching the ground.

 

His bare back rises and falls, warping the stripes that intersect over his spine.

 

So damn many of them. Taserface can't tell which ones come from Kraglin and which from whatever nightmare world Yondu fell out of, where pain and pleasure got so snarled together he can no longer tell them apart.

 

He looks his fill. When Yondu, impatient as ever, makes to twist at the waist and growl for him to hurry it up, Taserface grabs him by the implant and slams him there, face-down.

 

“Don't look at me,” he snarls.

 

Yondu snorts blood. His nose is pancaked; he'll have shiners fat as eggplants come morning.

 

But it ain't _lasting damage_ (unless Yondu gives more of a shit about cosmetics than Taserface credits him for). He doesn't whistle, and his fists bunch hard enough to bleach around the knuckles, bones bulging against taut blue skin.

 

Taserface reaches over him to draw a knife. It leaves its sheathe with a leathery _shing._

 

For a moment he actually considers it. Wouldn't be hard. He could cut a second smile in his neck and bleed him out, too quick for him to whistle. He could batter in while he's still conscious so his last memory is pain.

 

But that would be over too fast. Taserface don't want that.

 

He nudges blue legs apart, then kicks 'em when they don't take the hint. Spreads his cap'n out like a sacrifice. Then he runs the knife up the inside of his left thigh, a dark weal splitting blue like rot in a peach. Blood trickles, pools in the divots behind Yondu's trembling knees.

 

“Oh – fuck. _Yeah._ ”

 

Taserface grabs his head again, mashes his busted nose through his blood. “Shaddup.”

 

The cartilage buckles, crunch, squish, squish. Yondu’s eyes roll up and his ass cheeks clench like he’s being fucked. He burbles _Braddock,_ clawing at the table.

 

Braddock's gone. He's remade, reforged by the same fires that Yondu baptised him with. Taserface leans over, pinning him with his beer gut, cutting short his air.

 

He growls _“I said shaddup_ ” in his ear.

 

Yondu’s breath hitches. He twists under him in stupefied silence, like he can hardly believe this is real.

 

Taserface steps back. He runs the knife down his other leg, admiring how the tremors follow it, muscle jumping under split blue skin. Blood streaks Yondu’s cheeks like Kree warpaint, but he doesn’t make a sound - right up until the knife slips between his legs to nick his soft, hairless balls.

 

Then Yondu goes still. Oh so very, very still.

 

“Brad -”

 

“No talkin'. No talkin' or I cut.” He presses the point forwards; parts the cool, crinkly skin. “I can snip these beans before ya whistle.”

 

Yondu's rules didn't include shit about making threats. His teeth click closed. He whines through his nose as Taserface kneads his scarred buttock, blotting that wobbly, child-like _KrAGLin_ with bruises the shape of his finger and thumb.

 

“Kneel,” he says eventually.

 

Yondu does so, and Taserface drags him back so his spine is plastered to his clothed front – the most contact they've had since this game began. He gathers his wrists, _just_ in case Yondu fancies interfering, and balances his knife on the tip of Yondu's dick.

 

“Hold still, or this might hurt.”

 

He likes the ladies, generally speaking, but parsecs stretch between ports around galaxy’s edge and they don't got no crewmates with the requisite bits. At the end of the cycle a hole’s a hole, and a mouth’s wet and silky no matter who it belongs to.

 

Point is, Taserface gets fuck-all out of playing with Yondu’s todger. He notes, in a clinical sort of way, that it flushes the same deep purple as the blood from his busted nose. And that the skin’s mighty smooth, and there’s something deliciously vulnerable about the swing of those bald blue balls.

 

Just one more bit to bully. Nothing more.

 

Yondu doesn't breathe. He's hard – has been for some time, judging by the pearly smear on the table. The knife don't do him any disfavors.

 

It stipples his piss hole, eases just a fraction inside.

 

“Now,” says Taserface, all casual-like, like they’re on a job and talking over comms, like his heart ain't pumping poison around his burn-pocked chest. He bites the ring that’s punched through Yondu’s earlobe, tugs till it starts to tear. “I’mma fuck you, bitch. And yer gonna fight me. Yer gonna fight me like ya wanna get away.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Of course, once ain't enough.

 

It's like getting a lick of huffer, not the whole hit. Only makes you crave more.

 

It's unfair, it's infuriating, it's fucking _humiliating._ Yondu loves playing with fire, yet somehow it's always Taserface who winds up burnt.

 

Taserface don’t know what Yondu gets out of this, kicking and biting, squirming for freedom, roaring hoarse cusses as Taserface – height advantage, weight advantage, experience advantage from not having a magic arrow on which to rely – fights him to the floor and fucks him by force.

 

But he keeps coming back. When he's had a high casualty count on a mission, or they ain't matched the month's running costs, or Quill's been hurt, it's Taserface Yondu goes to.

 

Taserface who fucks him rough and dry without a flying shit for Yondu's pleasure and mocks him when he cums anyway. Who shoves his cock in his mouth after punching out his front teeth and admires the way cap'n lets his throat go slack and his eyes wash blank like a fellating fresh-killed corpse.

 

He talks shit the whole time. Nasty shit, crude shit, the shit he's always dreamed of saying. _Gonna make you beg for it bitch, gonna make you cum on me cock, spit on yer dirty hole, make you cry an’ call me cap'n._..

 

Yondu thinks about killing Taserface sometimes. He sees it in his eyes, as he's coming down from the haze, glassy eyes leaking and Taserface's dick swelling out his throat, a knife ticking in time with his pulse. For a split second, his busted teeth crimp above and below.

 

But he doesn't bite. Not yet. He lets Taserface pull out and paint his face like he don’t got no choice in the matter, like he's the one being hurt.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes though, it ain’t like that. Sometimes he sucks Taserface’s cock and slurps at his balls and rubs his face below like a cat claiming territory, huffing warm air on the hairy landing strip that leads between his asscheeks. 

 

Those times are worse.

 

Taserface smacks him away. Yondu rolls into the pain, laughing under his breath.

 

“What?” he taunts.

 

Taserface sprawls on the rickety whorehouse chair, one hand on the bastard’s implant to keep him kneeling. Yondu's pupils are black holes that drag in everything they see. He looks high, feral. Scary, like a druggie before they get all thin and start with the jitters.

 

“Ya go up against a Klyntar nest with guns blazin’, but wuss out of a tongue up yer ass?”

 

Taserface holds him by the throat. Not tight enough to break a rule, but somewhere on the way.

 

Yondu's pulse flutters under his thumb like it's trying to escape, although Yondu just smirks and tips back his chin, giving him better access.

 

“You don’t fuck me," Taserface says.

 

That laugh bubbles around his fingers. Taserface wants to squeeze until it stops. “Why? Scared ya might like it?”

 

Taserface shakes him, repeats himself. Yondu keeps chuckling, even as he chokes.

 

“Y-your fuckin’ loss.”

 

That night, rather than letting Taserface chase him down and give him bruises he’ll blame on bar brawls in the morning, Yondu piles onto his lap, a mound of metal teeth and ageing brawn. He sinks back onto him with spit for prep, used to the stretch, and moans like a fuck-bot, all husk and whine. He jerks himself to his bounces and leaves a stripe of dirty cum on Taserface’s grizzled belly hair, a victory banner of sorts, proof of what he’s missing.

 

Ain't no point. Taserface doesn’t take it. Not from nobody, least of all his captain.

 

And if he wakes one night in a cold sweat, raising a tent in the sheet, the phantom impression of Yondu’s incisors against his dirty nape...

 

Well. Only makes him detest the little blue cunt more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Next time, as he pins Yondu’s hands above his head to stop the bastard _wiggling,_ he tunes out the jabber – the giddy, euphoric _stop, stop,_ that both of ‘em know Taserface is going to ignore. He imagines another setting. Another place. Yondu tight and cold under him, chewing on Taserface’s belt. His eyes  chips of frigid silica ice as Taserface uses him like he deserves.

 

He wonders what face Yondu’d make if Taserface made Quill watch ‘em fuck. If he shot Quill in front of him, blam-blam through the guts so he dribbles out slow.

 

It’s that which leaves him pulsing, not the burn in his prick or the sharp, juddering clenches of the body below, the way cap’n’s eyes roll back and his legs quiver like overcharged plasma pistols when he cums.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The arrow spins in his subconscious. It's reins, a choke collar, and Taserface resents it more and more with each passing session: the constant reminder that this isn't him taking what he wants. Ain't that at all. It's him giving Yondu, his good-for-nothing, soft, weak, _undeserving_ captain, exactly what he needs.

 

Nothing public. Nothing in Yondu’s mouth but Taserface’s cock – mutually assured destruction. No threats to the Terran.

 

All of Yondu's rules, his little _nos,_ the parameters he sets on their games. They chew Taserface over at night, piranhas snacking on his toes.

 

They'll peter on like this, him and the cap'n, locked in a bitter loop of burnt hands on blue skin, of degradation and disintegration and _why the hell, if Taserface don’t let him top, does he feel like he’s the one getting fucked over_?

 

On it’ll go, over and over until one of them's dead.

 

Taserface just hopes that when it happens, they kill each other. Only seems fair.

 

Obfonteri might protest – doubtlessly, that little freak wants last cut. Tullk would frown if he ever knew the thoughts flowing through Taserface's head.

 

Neither of them like him – Kraglin from the jealousy of the supplanted, Tullk out of concern. Yondu still goes to visit them – he's too sentimental not to, and Taserface knows from the way he totes around those dumb bits of gimcrack that he ain't one for tiring of old toys.

 

He must think of Taserface as part of his collection, another shiny for his console that he can stroke while he plots his next heist. As the years seep on, Taserface thinks to himself _I’d rather die._ Every now and then he believes it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Nebula's pistol blazes and a corresponding gash sears through Yondu's implant, Taserface is infuriated.

 

Yondu's supposed to die under him. Not at the discretion of this Luphomoid bitch.

 

But she is a daughter of Thanos. Taserface is dumb ('Big lug,' Yondu used to call him in the brief five seconds after cumming when Taserface was too deadweight to yank away, petting his dreads like the fur mats on a massive alley tom-cat). But he knows better than to fuck with the Titan.

 

Anyway, Yondu's still breathing. He can't connect to his arrow. Nebula might not realize it, but she's gifted Taserface a far greater boon than the captaincy.

 

This could be everything Taserface has ever dreamed of. Maybe more.

 

He plants his foot on Yondu's back and crows his victory to the stars.

 

Kraglin and Tullk are watching. Taserface already knows which of 'em has to die.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He makes Yondu watch, out of the desire to earn a reaction more than anything. He's high on it – the power, the fumes, the electricity crackling in the air. Mutinies come and mutinies go, but this is the first to stick.

 

Taserface intends to keep it that way.

 

And so, he dedicates man after man to the black. Old friends, old comrades, but them who've always been loyal to Yondu rather than the highest payer. Tullk, Oblo, Morg, Jax'n, Plux. Away they float, their eyes crusting over with ice, skin blackening, withering, shrivelling tight to their bones.

 

Their leathers keep them together: a chain of bobbing cadavers that trails behind the slow-chugging galleon. They trace their passage into Kreespace like ribbons on a macabre bridal vessel.

 

Math ain't Taserface's forte. He can't very well ask Yondu to crunch the numbers for him – whether he'll still make enough out of delivering his dead body to the Kree to justify the journey. They pay more for a live bounty, but Taserface wants this. Needs it. To take Yondu apart, one last time.

 

Kraglin's eyes have been watering for the past twelve hours and he ain't flayed a single Orloni. But he don't say shit, even when Taserface stalks over to Yondu, planting his boot on the seat between his legs. He bends forwards over him, turning his face into the cup of one massive hand.

 

He could do it here. Whole crew's watching – Nebula and the rat-thing and that cute lil' tree. What better way to cement his authority than to fuck it out of his old boss?

 

Unzip his pants, hold Yondu jaws apart? Push his cock between those ugly gold teeth? Show 'em how easily he opens for Taserface, a silky blue glove stretched to fit?

 

Yondu doesn't meet his eyes. He sits there, slack in a way he only usually gets after an intense fuck, his gaze wandering through Taserface's torso and out the other side.

 

Taserface shakes him, to no avail. Slaps him, to the same.

 

“Look at me,” he orders. Yondu does so.

 

Ain't no fight. Ain't no laughter, not today.

 

It's perfect.

 

It's what Taserface has been longing for, tugging his cock as he dreams it over and over. Yondu Udonta, scourge of the starways, broken at long last.

 

But it ain't his doing, not really. The cracks appeared when Quill left, and they've been spreading ever since. Kraglin's betrayal, Tullk's death, Nebula's headshot – all those factors collude, whittling him away to a limp blue doll.

 

For some reason, the blankness in Yondu's eyes tastes sour.

 

Taserface's tastebuds got scorched beyond repair during the explosion. He ain't tasted nothing properly, not for a very long time.

 

“Dammit,” he says, quiet enough that only he and Yondu hear.

 

Yondu makes no acknowledgment. Does nothing but slump on the chair, face rolled into Taserface's coarse palm.

 

It ain't _fair._ Taserface ain't never gonna get what he wants. He sees that now. The universe has played his own nature against him.

 

Yondu's already broken, but it weren't by cruelty. Not by Taserface's hand or anyone else's. He's broken by the absence of the kid he risked his hide over and over to protect, offering himself up to scum even lower than Taserface. He's broken by those words Kraglin uttered as they stood in the forest bathed in moonlight, Ravagers shambling from the trees.

 

_Just this once, cap'n. Just this once._

 

And he's broken by the tiny figure ejected from the airlock, who dwindles to a fly in the distance, a speck, then nothing.

 

Taserface could do whatever the fuck he wanted to him. Yondu won't whistle. Yondu won't cry. Yondu will just stare blankly at whatever middle distance his mind has retreated to in a last-ditch effort to keep himself sane.

 

“Taserface!” guffaws the rat. He kicks his legs about, squirming gleefully in his bonds. “ _Taserface._ ”

 

Before this, Yondu was the only person who dared laugh at him. It's a thousand times more grating from this imp.

 

“Take 'em away,” Taserface orders, standing with his back turned. Kraglin watches through those pale rheumy eyes. “Put 'em both in the cages, lowest deck. We hunt Quill and his friends down after we've delivered these fuckers to the Kree.”

 

He doesn't want to see them. Doesn't want to be reminded of what is no longer feasible – Yondu fracturing open, naked and bleeding for him, as Taserface wrings the air from his throat.

 

Ain't no fun when the prize wants to be stolen. Certainly ain't no fun when the victim wants to die.

 

Later, as the arrow whizzes through the crew, dropping Ravagers like canaries in a polluted mineshaft, Taserface knows it's over. Knows he's cemented his own fate. He broke a rule, after all.

 

He threatened the brat in cap'n's hearing.

 

At the very least, he thinks, as the arrow accelerates towards the powder room, spitting fire in all directions, after this, Yondu ain't gonna laugh at his name.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **That's all, folks. I know this is a whacko fic that like..... barely any of my usual lovely commenters are gonna want to read/interact with, so seriously, thank you to everyone who has left comments! It means a bundle. I love y'all.**

**Author's Note:**

> **Thank you for reading! Every kudos/comment makes me smile. x**


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